


Drabbles and Ficlets

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Fluff, Arranged Marriage, Beards (Facial Hair), Beauty - Freeform, Borderline Infidelity, Character Death, Coming Untouched, Crack, Denial, Dom/sub, Dreams and Nightmares, Dubious Consent, Execution, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, Fluff and Smut, Food Kink, Foreplay, Gen, Godswood Sex, Guilt, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internalized Misogyny, Jealousy, Knifeplay, Light Angst, M/M, Married Couple, Matchmaking, Negotiations, Nipple Play, Or Was It A Dream?, Oral Fixation, Orgasm Denial, Period-Typical Heterosexism, Political Alliances, Premature Ejaculation, Prostitution, R plus L equals J, Rape Fantasy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Regrets, Religious Content, Revenge, Same-Sex Marriage, Seduction, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Inexperience, Sibling Incest, Slut Shaming, Spanking, Strawberries, Sulking, Temperature Play, Underage Sex, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virginity, Voyeurism, cersei being cersei, succession
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2018-09-08 06:32:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 11,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8834065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Just a collection of short fics (often kink meme fills) that aren't long enough I feel justified posting them on their own.14: So in some ways, this should not be such a surprise. Many peaces have been brokered with marriage alliances before. Most likely, she thought Stannis would offer his daughter to Renly, for she was the only female relative either of them had available. It turns out, the two Baratheon brothers are more creative than she is.15: "Jon, please. You have to touch me."16: "I can't believe you're jealous."17: Jon frowns as he feeds another log to the fire. Heat swells in the walls around them. They are in her rooms that never need their hearth lit, and he wonders what Father will think when she sits for dinner tonight stinking of smoke.18: She hates it when her brothers let their beards grow.19: It is strange, thinks Catelyn. These northerners worship their gods so very differently than she does.20: How do you forget a man you never met?21: This could be a disaster.





	1. Cause and Effect (Theon, Robb, G)

**Author's Note:**

> Since I've worked up a tiny backlog of fics too small/pointless to be worth posting on their own, but I still kinda want attention for them. If you would like to prompt me something, feel free to leave it in comments, or over at [my tumblr](http://bloggish.tumblr.com/ask).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn't think of it until the Boltons are gone, he has for some reason been allowed to live, and the whole story has to be written into the history books. _King Robb sent Bolton men to reclaim Winterfell from the Ironborn, but they betrayed him..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was written for the asoiaf kink meme prompt: "Robb/Theon, _I knew you’d give up on me._ (did he?)"

Years later, he thinks of it. Perhaps he should have thought of it at first, when he was strapped to that cross, but then he couldn't really think anything other than _please stop, please, make it stop_. Besides, he would never have believed it. So he doesn't think of it until the Boltons are gone, he has for some reason been allowed to live, and the whole story has to be written into the history books. _King Robb sent Bolton men to reclaim Winterfell from the Ironborn, but they betrayed him..._

They.

The Starks answer him without him ever asking. _No,_ says Jon, voice rough and raw like speaking to Theon physically hurts him. _Robb would never, you know that,_ Sansa says, voice like gold – soft and heavy. Bran says nothing, just stares until Theon looks away in shame for even thinking such a thing.

(Theon looks away from Bran in shame a lot of the time.)

Theon knows they're right. He knew Robb. He wasn't above anger, or revenge – how did the war start in the first place? (The maesters fight a lot about that. How did it start?) But sorts of things Ramsay did, that wasn't him. Robb would have just killed him and been done with it. And it wouldn't have meant anything to him if he couldn't do it himself.

So no, Robb Stark did not send Ramsay after him. Or technically he did, but he had no idea what Ramsay was going to do. Robb wouldn't have done that.

But that doesn't mean he shouldn't have.


	2. Family Ties (Catelyn, Dany, G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's almost surprised Jon Snow didn't make the woman kill her. _He's never hated me that much,_ she reminds herself, but she certainly doesn't expect his aunt to have any love for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was the first of a collection of drabbles about character combinations arrived at via random number generator, which I almost finished before my computer crashed on me and I lost half my work, and lost motivation to write it all out again.

She's almost surprised Jon Snow didn't make the woman kill her. _He's never hated me that much_ , she reminds herself, but she certainly doesn't expect his aunt to have any love for her.

It's a shame. There's much to admire about the woman, how she raised herself from nothing, from being sold as a glorified bedslave to a barbarian king, to one of the greatest queens the world has known. And how she vows to destroy the Lannisters with fire and blood. Catelyn can't help but think Ned would not approve. But Ned is gone, he has been gone for years, and Catelyn cannot rest until his killers are gone too. Daenerys Targaryen can help her.

“My nephew says you treated him very badly,” the queen says. Catelyn can't help but bristle.

“Not so badly. Some women in my position would have had him killed. Cersei Lannister massacred her husbands bastards,” she says, but Daenerys Targaryen seems unmoved. She sighs. “I was more cold than anything else. But I never hurt him.”

“Cold can hurt more than anything. Especially for a dragon.”

“I did not know the truth,” Catelyn says. “If I did...”

“If you did.” Daenerys Targaryen thinks this over. “I am not by nature forgiving.”

“Oh, I hope not Your Grace,” Catelyn says. “In fact I'm rather counting on it.”

Daenerys cracks a small smile.


	3. Reception (Theon/Ros, Theon/Robb, T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He rolls his eyes. “C'mon, give it back.” She does so without a fuss. “It's just a joke between friends, nothing else.”
> 
> “Oh, of course,” she says with a grin. “As is the fact you keep seeing a redheaded prostitute whose name starts with Ro-?”
> 
> “Coincidence.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was written for the asoiaf kink meme prompt: "Theon/Robb/Ros, Modern AU. _(612): Just me. You're probably having sex with her right now, so here's a reminder that you should be thinking of me per our agreement._

“That Robb Stark?”

He glares at her. “How did you know?”

She laughs. “You only go that doe-eyed when it's Robb Stark.”

“Fuck off.” She laughs more as she ties her hair back, and he reaches for a cigarette with his spare hand as he reads over the text. _Just me. You're probably having sex with her right now, so here's a reminder that you should be thinking of me per our agreement._ Hopefully she's a bit busy to see him blush.

“Well c'mon, lemme see.”

She takes it out of his hand without waiting for permission. “...Bloody confident for a cheap hooker, aren't ya?”

“Sex worker, dear. And that's what you like about me. Enough you keep paying despite bitching about my prices. Speaking of which...”

“Yeah yeah, kitchen table,” he says, finally managing to light his cigarette. “You know, you should set up some sort of subscription service so we don't have to go through this every time. It's annoying.”

“Maybe I like annoying you,” she says. “You've always seemed to like me teasing you.”

He rolls his eyes as she reads over the message. She smirks to herself and he withdraws under the sheets, feeling embarrassed. “What?”

“I didn't say anything.”

He rolls his eyes. “C'mon, give it back.” She does so without a fuss. “It's just a joke between friends, nothing else.”

“Oh, of course,” she says with a grin. “As is the fact you keep seeing a redheaded prostitute whose name starts with Ro-?”

“Coincidence.” He doesn't know why he puts up with this. She started digging into him about his relationship with Robb ages ago, and given he's paying her she should just shut up if he tells her, but he never tells her. The fact Robb does tend to text him while he's in the middle of sex with her doesn't help. Innocent little Robb seems alternately appalled, intrigued and in denial about Theon fucking a prostitute. He's half-considered paying Ros to go seduce Robb, just to see what he'd do, but that doesn't sound like it'd make her any less likely to make fun of him.

She snorts. “Sure.” He decides he's just going to ignore her now. He should do something else with his phone, get rid of the damn message (it's not like it takes a long time to read), but he doesn't. He just stares at it, and doesn't think anything at all.

She notices, because of course she does. “Just a joke between friends, huh?” He glares at her. She sighs and shrugs, as if to say none of my business (not that that will stop her bringing it up next time they do this), and starts pulling herself out of bed. God, she's got a great ass. See, Robb doesn't have an ass like that. Or, alright, maybe he does. But it's not like Theon's noticed or anything. Just, when you spend that much time with a guy...

“Still, I shouldn't complain,” says Ros, pulling her shirt back on. “Longer you're in denial, longer you're paying me for something you can't get anywhere else.” _I can get this from anywhere I please,_ he thinks, and he does – he fucks any woman who takes his fancy (and plenty who don't) – but somehow he always comes back to her.

"Then why mention it?” he asks, and it feels like giving in but still, she's just a hooker, who cares what she thinks? “Why risk the good thing you've got going here just to fuck with my head?”

She looks back at him, and smiles. He hates it when she does that. “Maybe I like you, kid,” she says. “Maybe I actually want you to be happy.”

“Fuck off.”

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever,” she mutters, making her way out of his bedroom. Some part of him wants to get up – to say goodbye, to ask her to stay awhile, to tell her she's wrong, whatever – but he doesn't.

No, he just lies in bed, looks at his phone, and thinks.


	4. Inheritance (Stannis, Dany, G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Usurper,” she calls him. If he were anyone else, he would smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second of the number generator drabbles.

“Usurper,” she calls him.

If he were anyone else, he would smile.

“My brother was the one true king of Westeros. I am his legitimate heir. I am the king of the Seven Kingdoms, no matter how many different banners you wave over my head.”

She frowns at him. Her black and red is no different to red and gold, to white and grey, even black and gold – and black and gold again, and Renly, and Renly. He will not let her see him flinch.

“My father was the one true king of Westeros. You fought to overthrow him.”

“Your father was a madman who burnt men alive.”

“You burn men alive. You're famous for it.”

“So are you.”

They've come to an impasse, and Stannis itches against something. She cocks her head to the side, curious.

“You had the smallest force in the War of the Five Kings, and yet you were the last to stop fighting. But you've never ruled anything bigger than Dragonstone.” He knows him holding that must infuriate her as much as it does him – the squalid rock that means nothing to him, but is her ancestral homeland. “Do you really want to be King?”

“Do you really want to be queen?”

Neither of them answers.


	5. Justice (Stannis, Theon, T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turncloak, traitor, kinslayer. Stannis won't feel any regret over executing the boy. He earned his death fair enough, more than many men have, and doesn't seem particularly desperate to avoid it.
> 
> Still, Stannis is a cold man, but he is not without pity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third of the number generator drabbles.

Turncloak, traitor, kinslayer (he's no kinslayer, but Stannis opts not to mention it). Stannis won't feel any regret over executing the boy. He earned his death fair enough, more than many men have, and doesn't seem particularly desperate to avoid it.

Still, Stannis is a cold man, but he is not without pity. He heard rumours of what the Boltons were capable of, but this... this is more than he could have imagined. And he imagined many things. He heard Theon Greyjoy was a handsome young man, and horribly aware of it; a lech, a wit, a good archer – something like Robert, in his day.

It's hard to imagine the creature before him was ever much of anything. His hair is white, his fingers bent where they are not simply gone, and his teeth knocked out so he can barely chew. Stannis wonders why someone did this to him. What was the point of it? Did the Lord of Light really feel the need to punish a turncloak so? ( _The gods reserve the worst punishments for oathbreakers, kingslayers and kinslayers,_ he hears Maester Cressen saying long ago).

He shakes the thought away. It will do no good to pity Greyjoy. The boy is dead already, a swift beheading will be a mercy.


	6. Of Madmen and Ghosts, and Mad Ghosts (Theon, Alannys, T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His hair is the first thing she notices. “My boy,” she reaches out to him, wrapping snow white around her sallow skin. “You've become old.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was written for the asoiaf kink meme prompt: "Alannys, Theon. Post-ADWD Theon meeting his mother."

His hair is the first thing she notices. “My boy,” she reaches out to him, wrapping snow white around her sallow skin. “You've become old.”

“I have, Mother.” He leans to the touch, soft as a ghost's.

“Has it been many years?”

 _Not as many as you'd think._ “Yes.” _Not as many as I think either._

“Do you have children of your own?”

 _I will never have children. And if I could, I wouldn't, for I wouldn't be able to look them in the eye._ “Not yet.”

She smiles. “Well, you must hurry,” she says. “Else your father will be angry.”

 _My father can never be angry at me for anything ever again._ He knows it shouldn't be such a relief. He wants to smile back at her, but he cannot. Then she would see his teeth, and he can't bare the thought.

"I will try my best." He will never try at all.

Her breath comes slow. They say she will die soon. “I never believed them,” she says. “They told me you were dead. But I never believed them.”

 _I did._ “Thank you, Mother.” He cannot help himself. He takes her hand in his, raises her palm to kiss it. “I'm sorry I didn't visit you before.”

She shakes her head. “My brave boy,” she says. “I understand. You had such important things to do.”

 _I had such terrible mistakes to make,_ he thinks, but it's not as if seeing her would have made him less likely to make those mistakes. She gives a small cry, and pulls his hand closer to her. “Your fingers,” she says. “What did they do to your fingers?”

He looks away, shakes his head. “Nothing so bad.” His voice cracks. His fingers were never the worst of it. Many men live without fingers.

“Then where are they?”

Truth be told, he wonders himself sometimes. The dogs ate them, he thinks, and buried them in the woods when they did their business. “They fell off in the snow.” He remembers eyes so blue they were almost white. “It is very cold in the north. And I was always a foolish child.”

 _And now I am a foolish old man._ She smiles at him once more. “You are my son,” she says. “And you always were a bad liar.”

When her breathing stops, her eyes roll back in her head, so he sees only blank white.

He closes the lids with what's left of his hand.


	7. Younger and More Beautiful (Dany, Cersei, G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was lovelier than you once, I know I was.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fourth (and so far last) of the number generator drabbles.

“You're not as beautiful as I imagined,” the woman laughs, hysterical. She's on her knees before the court, and yet still proud. She was warned the lioness would be like that. She would not break easily.

“I was lovelier than you once, I know I was.”

Daenerys frowns. She's not sure what her beauty has to do with anything, or Cersei's, for that matter. She did not sleep her way into the city. She flew in on her dragons. You would think the difference is obvious.

“I suppose I am beautiful enough,” she says, and the Lannister woman just laughs.


	8. In His Dreams (Jon/Robb, M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In his dreams, he stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the asoiaf kink meme prompt: "It's the night before the King and his court are off to the South and Jon to the wall; it's the last night Jon and Robb have together and Robb begs him not to go. It's up to you whether or not he stays but I want Robb to break down and really beg Jon not to leave, that he must stay by his side."

In his dreams, it works. In his dreams, he smiles as Robb wakes him from his sleep, he does not worry about the long ride ahead of him tomorrow morning. He sees the look on Robb's face, the anguish, the terror, the desperation, and wants nothing more than to comfort him – to kiss him and make him feel like nothing is wrong; that Father and the girls aren't about to leave for the capital, that Bran isn't languishing between life and death, that Lady Catelyn isn't languishing with him, and that Jon isn't about to leave as well.

He does not think that he has never seen Robb look so lost, and the thought does not stir his bitterness.

In his dreams, when Robb starts to beg and plead with him, Jon kisses the words right out of his mouth. He finds no joy in hearing his brother cry. He feels no pride in watching Lady Catelyn's beloved firstborn suck his cock like a two-copper whore. When Robb sobs against his thigh, Jon pets his hair and tells him it will be alright, he's not going anywhere. He does not think that Robb is only acting like this because there is no-one else. He does not remember the half-a-dozen times Robb's mother has summoned him to his side if she thought he and Jon were getting to close, and with an apologetic look, Robb always chose her. Jon does not think of all the times Robb has come to him after offering his body as a consolation prize, as if that would be enough, as if this bitter, cheap pretense of having Robb would be enough to make up for all the ways he never will.

When Jon fucks Robb for the last time, he tells him how beautiful he is, how much he loves him, how much he could never live without him. He does not bite those words back out of shame, out of fear of letting the Heir of Winterfell know how pathetic his bastard brother is. He does not angrily fool himself that Robb has no right to act like this, that he will be just fine on his own, he always is, he's the perfect little lord and nothing is ever any trouble for him – it is Jon who's always been the needy one, the one so desperate for love he'd do whatever Robb asked, the one who has to run right to the edge of Westeros to try and break out of Robb's orbit. So what right does Robb have to come to him sobbing?

In his dreams, when Robb cries against his shoulder once they're done, Jon turns around and faces him, kisses him, tells him everything will be alright. He does not pretend to be asleep until Robb realises he will get nothing more, and slinks back to his warm rich lord's chambers. He does not bury his hand in the furs to fight off the urge to comfort him, for he knows if he does he will never be brave enough to leave.

In his dreams, he stays. He stays by Robb's side through the war, reminding him of the man he is, not just the king. He talks Robb out of sending Theon to Pyke, reminding him how hard it is to be of Winterfell and not, how much anger and fury Theon must have bred over the years. He talks Robb out of marrying the Westerlands girl, reminding him that while dishonouring her was wrong, the Freys will have their vengeance for his breaking his word, and any babe born of her would be far happier to be a bastard with a living father than trueborn with a dead one. Jon would know.

In his dreams, Robb lives.

But then Jon wakes up, and Robb is dead, and Jon is all alone on the Wall, in the cold.


	9. Red (Jon/Catelyn, E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She would come willing enough, reluctant and with ice in her eyes, but that is not so unusual, and if he were Lord of Winterfell, she'd have to obey. That's Lady Catelyn, still a Tully after all these years, ever so dutiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the valar_morekinks prompt: "Jon/Catelyn spanking, dub-con/non-con fantasy. Jon fantasises about spanking Catelyn and her loving it." Aforementioned trigger warnings apply.

He'd be sitting in his Father's chair, Jon thinks as he squeezes gently at his prick, although he's not sure why he would be. She would come willing enough, reluctant and with ice in her eyes, but that is not so unusual, and if he were Lord of Winterfell, she'd have to obey. That's Lady Catelyn, still a Tully after all these years, ever so dutiful.

She'd still as he slowly pushed her skirts up, revealing the pale flesh beneath inch by inch. He would not take pity on her, get it done quickly and let her scurry back to her rooms in shame; no, he would make the experience as long, as torturous, as humiliating as any feast where he had to sit at the back of the room with the servants and stablehands. He likes to think he'd find no smallclothes beneath, although he doubts it's very likely; he likes to think he could raise an eyebrow, and she would turn her face into his thigh to hide her shame, hide herself from his father's bannermen watching. Yes, Jon wants to think all the lords of the north would be there. That they would watch their lady utterly shamed.

She would gasp when he first struck her, pretty pale arse jiggling (even after all her babes, she has the body of a maiden, and Jon tightens his fist around his cock bitterly). It would be out of shock at first, but it would make the men watching guffaw. When Jon struck her a second time, she would moan.

She would try and hold tight to dignity at first, not show an inch of pain, but as he struck her again and again and again, until her arse flushed as red as her first family's banners, she would start to squirm. He would think it was just her trying to lessen the ache until he heard the way she moaned each time he hit her, felt the way she panted over his cock.

“Do you like this, my lady?” he'd ask, and not try at all to hide his words while he squeezed her reddened arse, the laughter in the Great Hall stopping dead. She would not answer, of course she wouldn't, she's far too proud for that, so Jon would just strike her harder and harder until she whined and whimpered, until he could feel her wetness dripping onto the cloth of her trousers.

He'd meet his lords' bannermen's eyes over her prone, half-naked body. They'd all want her then, to have her one after another after another until she screamed, until she was broken, the fearsome Lady of Winterfell as vulnerable as a girl and lewd as a whore, but Jon would have too much honour to ever let such a fate befall his father's wife. Not so long as she obeyed.

The longer it went on, the longer and harder he abused her, the less she could hide her wantonness. She'd squirm and writhe in his lap like the filthiest of sluts. Desperately, she'd try and kiss his cock through his breeches. He'd push her away, disgusted.

Once he was finally done with her punishment, he'd throw her to the ground. He would not fuck her though. She'd want him to, she'd _beg_ him too – and all of the north would see it, the Lady of Winterfell on her back with her legs spread, sobbing with her need for bastard cock. But Jon wouldn't dishonour himself just to fulfill such a wanton whore's desires. “On your knees,” he'd order.

She'd do as bid, and he'd pull her lovely red hair to force her close. “Open your mouth,” he'd say. He wouldn't slide his prick between her lips, not even if he saw her drooling to take him. No, he'd simply take himself in hand until he finished, his seed landing in her mouth – and she'd swallow it without even being told.

Then he'd send her away, red and unsatisfied, until he next had need of her. And it would be known across the land: Lady Catelyn Stark was nothing but a whore, a far greater whore than Jon's mother had been.

Jon groans as his seed spills from his prick, and the second it does the shame overwhelms him. It is his father's wife, his brothers' and sisters' mother he dreams of ruining, a woman who has never truly been cruel to him, or at least, not as cruel as she could be (not as cruel as she dreams of being). Jon can't believe such sick desires dwell within him. _I am everything she thinks of me_ , and then he wants to sob.

 


	10. Cold Night (Robb/Roose, E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A dream. That's what this is, a dream. Lord Bolton would not. He is my bannerman, he would not do something so foolish out of, what, lust? He is not a man of lusts._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the asoiaf kink meme prompt: "When Roose Bolton came into the king's tent all drunk and horny Robb was unable to say no... not with a knife on his throat." This is like, right on the border length-wise of what I would post here and what I would publish as its own story, and is in fact very slightly longer than at least one fic I have published on its own, but eh.

He wakes with a blade at his throat and for a long moment he does not breathe, afraid if he does he will nick himself open. _Grey Wind_ , he thinks. _Where is Grey Wind?_ The wolf usually guards his tent while he sleeps, he should have stopped anyone entering, where has he gone? Is this some Lannister spy? What is happening?  
  
“You're awake,” comes a soft voice in his ear, so soft Robb has to strain to hear it, “good. I suggest you do not scream.”  
  
_Lord Bolton?_ Robb shivers as the cold metal caresses his skin. This is treason, his bannerman threatening him like this, what does Bolton think he's doing? Could the man possibly be drunk? _What do you want from me?_ he wants to ask, but the knife at his throat makes him too afraid to speak aloud, like Bolton might slice him open for that or just that if he moves at all he might slice himself, and then Bolton's other hand reaches beneath his blankets and pushes aside his nightshirt.  
  
_No. No, he cannot mean to..._ Robb almost whimpers as he feels Bolton's cold fingers on his bare skin. _A dream,_ he realises. _That's what this is, a dream. Lord Bolton would not. He is my bannerman, he would not do something so foolish out of, what, lust? He is not a man of lusts._  
  
The man's fingers feel unnaturally smooth and slick as they stroke between Robb's cheeks, as one easy slips inside him. _See, it must be a dream. If it were real, it would hurt._ A second finger pushes in, and Robb moans, almost pushing back against it before he remembers himself, remembers the knife. The blade is cold and sharp and terrifying, and in a strange way, thrilling. This must be a dream, for though he has never admitted it to himself, there is a part of him who's dreamt this before, some man coming to him in the night, putting a knife to his throat so he could not scream and could not fight, and having his way. _For if there is a knife at my throat, then it is not my fault. I have been dishonoured, but I have not dishonoured myself._  
  
“I suggest you be quiet, Your Grace,” Bolton says, but there is something like amusement in his voice when he says it. Robb does his best, but he cannot quite control himself, and soft moans and whimpers fall from his lips as Bolton stretches him open with three fingers, thrusting them in deep, deep enough it almost does hurt, but not as much as it should. _A dream,_ Robb tells himself. _If it were real, I would not enjoy it._ “It would not do for your people to catch you in bed with another man. I'm sure the Freys would disapprove.”  
  
When Bolton replaces his fingers with his cock, Robb really does gasp, and feels a sharp, light pain as the faintest of pink marks spreads across his neck. He shivers in terror and desire. He stills himself then, even as Bolton starts to push in and out of him with long, slow, gentle thrusts that make Robb want to rock back, want to beg him to go faster, want to beg for more. But he cannot do that. He can enjoy this, but he cannot allow it. Bolton's cock is not cool like his fingers were, it is _hot_ , and Robb can feel the spread up right through him, leaving him panting and sweating beneath the blanket. With the still-wet fingers of his free hand, Bolton gently runs his fingers along Robb's hip. The hand holding the knife has not moved.  
  
The hand on his hip then moves around to Robb's front, takes a loose hold of his prick, wet and aching from being used so. It takes only a couple of pumps before Robb moans, throwing his head back, spilling his seed across the straw mattress. Bolton chuckles, and Robb flushes, embarrassed by his youthful lack of stamina. The he feels a nick of pain, sharper this time, and wonders if he has cut himself and is bleeding, if only a little.  
  
Bolton makes no sound when he spends, but his free hand, still laced with Robb's seed, takes a firm hold of Robb's hip and pulls him tight, sheathing himself entirely as his prick pulses with release. Robb moans again.  
  
Only then does the knife move, as Lord Bolton pulls himself out of his king and out of his king's bed. “Sleep well, Your Grace,” he whispers and then he is gone. Robb never even turned to look at him.  
  
The next morning, Robb feels no ache, sees no scars. When Bolton comes to talk battle strategy with him, he tells himself he sees no smirk in the man's cold gaze. _A_ _dream. It must have been a dream._


	11. Pink, White, Yellow (Cersei/Sansa, E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa Stark is such a naïve girl, really. Naive and beautiful, always a dangerous combination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was a thing I wrote ages ago and completely forgot about and then remembered again, that maybe was originally meant to be longer, but I don't remember what I meant to happen and this bit comes to a surprisingly neat conclusion so *shrug*
> 
> **tw:** dubcon, underage

Sansa Stark is such a naïve girl, really. Naïve and beautiful, always a dangerous combination. Perhaps Cersei should feel guilty, since the girl is not technically of age yet, but her birthday's but a couple of months away and Cersei knows men will be all over this girl the second she turns sixteen – she should be a little prepared for it. Really, the Starks ought to thank her for showing such concern for their daughter, for opting to introduce her to such things herself, rather than leaving it to some stupid teenage boy with no idea what he's doing, or worse, some drunk old pervert taking advantage.

The girl moans as she writhes in Cersei's lap, legs wrapped around the small of Cersei's back, cute yellow sundress – too long to be considered revealing, but too short to be completely innocent – hitched up around her waist. “Good girl,” Cersei murmurs as she sucks gently at Sansa's neck – oh how she wants to leave a hickey, but she decides it's not worth it, no matter how much she wants to laugh at the look on Ned and Catelyn's faces when they see someone has defiled their precious daughter. But she's sure Sansa couldn't lie about who had defiled her to save her life, the girl is like that.

“Mrs. Lannister,” Sansa gasps as she unwittingly bucks her hips, and Cersei can see through her white satin underwear – complete with little pink bows – how wet she is. It makes her smirk. _What a slut._ She's still such a precious little thing, calling Cersei _Mrs. Lannister,_ so respectful – the poor dear probably has no idea how this happened; once they're done she'll be disgusted with herself for being so easily seduced, but oh well.

“Hush, dear,” she says as she runs her hands up Sansa's thighs, letting a thumbnail oh so softly graze the skin, so pale even that leaves a pretty pink mark to match the bows on her panties. “Do you want something?”

Sansa shivers at the touch, clinging to Cersei's shoulders. “I– I–”

The poor thing has no idea what's going on. Cersei takes pity on her. “Do you want me to touch you?” she whispers as she closes her palm over Sansa's perfect untouched cunt.

Sansa doesn't answer per se, but she gasps so loud her parents might hear her next door and immediately starts grinding against the ball of Cersei's hand, mewling and whimpering. “Oh, how desperate you are,” Cersei chuckles as she nips Sansa's ear with her teeth. “Has anyone ever touched you here, sweetheart?” Sansa moans and shakes her head. “Of course not. Such a well-behaved little thing, not like some girls – some girls would let any boy stick his filthy fingers inside them, would let anyone stick anything anywhere, just to get off, just for the attention. But not you, little Sansa. Your parents raised you better than that, didn't they?”

The girl cries out, a flush of shame spreading across her cheeks. Cersei does her best not to grin. “Shh, it's alright little dove. I'll take care of you,” she says, pressing her hand against Sansa's little slit harder – and the girl is _so_ inexperienced that it's all she needs; she throws her head back and cries out, shrill, needy, almost frightened, as she quivers with pleasure and her pretty panties get soaked.

_She's mine. I've got her. The Starks' daughter is my whore._


	12. Strawberries and Cream (Theon/Jon/Robb, E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Jon and Robb have fucking obscene mouths, but in slightly different ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this came about purely because of me thinking way too much about Kit Harrington and Richard Madden's respective mouths tbh

One thing that could be said for Winterfell for above Pyke: easier to get fresh produce. Not that things really grow any better in the barren icy wasteland that is the North than on the barren rocky not-at-all-a-wasteland that is the Iron Islands, but they do have a lot more bannermen who are willing to ride up with a basket full of fruit to try and win favour. Fruit is one of those things that's kind of hard to reave.

Strawberries, it is today, a giant fucking crate of them laid before the whole family, everyone too busy gnawing away before they rot to be speaking to each other. Theon's no better, his cheeks crammed full of the sweet red fruit, too preoccupied to even be annoyed he's stuck next to Snow, who's much less of a sullen moody bastard with his mouth full, it seems.

Idly, his eyes slide sideways at he watches as Jon delicately raises another strawberry to his mouth, eyes sliding shut in bliss as he closes his perfect pink lips around the red fruit. Theon's cock jumps uncomfortably in his breeches. _Fuck._ No wonder Snow's around if his mother carried on that way when she ate. Snow's mouth is just perfect, better than any whore's and so his mother _must_ have been a whore, what other profession would you go into with a mouth like that, gods and now he's imagining Snow on his knees in some cheap and dirty Dornish brothel, sucking cock like he's been trained for it, trained to use that mouth for what it's meant for, and Theon ought to look away before he's walking out of here with a hard-on. He doesn't want to scare the little ones.

Across the table is Robb, and looking at him proves a bad idea too because while Robb's mouth isn't like Jon's, pretty and pouty and perfectly shaped, it's fucking filthy in it's own way – it's just big, his bottom lip so swollen you'd say it takes up half his face, and always stained red, never more so as he greedily shoves strawberry after strawberry down his throat. Both Jon and Robb have fucking obscene mouths, but in slightly different ways, and it took Theon a long time to figure out what that difference is – eventually he concluded, Jon's mouth always looks like it's begging to be fucked. Robb's mouth always looks like it already has been.

The more he thinks about it though, it might be a family trait. Sansa's got a not-half-bad pout on her too, and so might Bran, once he's grown up a bit. It's enough to make Theon wonder what Lord Stark looks like underneath the beard.

Robb lets out a noise of surprise as he bites halfway through a strawberry and the juice spurts out of him. Robb's a bit of a messy eater, not like Snow, who's so fucking careful – he hates having to ask his lord father for new clothes – and now Theon is watching him lick the juices off his fucked-looking lips and _fuck_ , now he's imagining Robb licking _something else_ off those lips and...

Theon is rock hard beneath the table now and he doesn't have a clue what he's going to do about it because he can't get his brain to shut up, and now he's seeing them with the one strawberry between them, biting it from either side and then pressing their reddened mouths together, moaning softly at the taste of the fruit and of each other, such a pretty pair of wolf cubs. Then he'd grab them both by the hair and lead them to kneel before him as he sat on the Seastone Chair, no not the Seastone Chair, the Throne of Winter, yes their fucking lord father's seat that's perfect, and they'd both be just so willing, so ready for Theon's seed; some cream to go with their strawberries. Oh, but it'd be tricky to figure out how to share fairly, wouldn't want one of them to go away disappointed, but he thinks what he'd do is he'd push his cock between Jon's perfect pink lips, show him what that mouth is meant for, and meanwhile he'd put the bloody size of Robb's mouth to good use, have him sucking Theon's swollen balls, and fuck what a picture that would make, yes that's how he'd use the little sluts...

“The fuck are you staring at Greyjoy?” comes Jon's voice right out of nowhere, and Theon is shaken out of his fantasy to realise he's completely zoned out, and now Jon and Robb are both staring at him, wondering what he's been thinking. A blush rises to his cheeks automatically, but the Prince of the Iron Islands doesn't _blush_ , so instead he smirks.

“Just wondering what goes with strawberries, that's all.”

Jon and Robb blink in confusion, clearly not getting it, and Theon smirks wider.

 


	13. Sensitive (Jon/Theon, M)

Theon's initial reaction, after the first few seconds of stunned, awkward silence, is to laugh. Of course it is.

Jon immediately scowls and turns his head, flushing red in humiliation. "Oh Snow," croons Theon up at him, "forgive me, my lady, I didn't realise you were such a delicate maiden. Had I known I may have eased you along more gently-"

"Shut up, Theon!" Jon shoves him roughly by the shoulders, and his head thuds against the pillows. That only makes Theon laugh louder.  _I should have known better. Why would going to bed with Theon Greyjoy end in anything but humiliation?_  But to be fair, it's not like he decided to go to bed with Greyjoy; rather their inevitable fight over being forced to share a bed turned physical, and that turned into them frantically humping each other like wild dogs. Jon didn't have much time to think better of it, and that thought makes him blush deeper.

"Don't be like that, bastard. Only thing more embarrassing than a green boy is a green who won't admit it." Jon scowls so deeply he feels his cheeks will rip open. Gods, what is wrong with the man? "Tell you what, since I've not gotten off yet, I'm going to be very generous and let you put that pout to better use – ah!"

Jon isn't thinking beyond how badly he needs Theon to shut up, and so he leans down and takes one of Theon's nipple between his teeth on pure instinct - luckily, Theon got further through undressing for bed before he did. There's no particular reason for it to work, and yet it seems too, Theon's voice leaving him and being replaced by just a shuddering breath. At least at first.

"Snow, what the hell do you think you're–" And Jon  _bites,_  punishing Theon for being such a prick. It earns a rather uncharacteristic mewl, and Theon's body arching up off the bed beneath him.

In truth, Jon might have always wanted to do this. He feels strange for even noticing, but Theon such perfect nipples: pink and round and pert, as large as a woman's. Like two little seashells upon his chest, as teasing and inviting as any mermaid's. Secretly, Jon has fantasised about what he could do with them; licking and sucking and stroking them, making Theon moan.

And moaning Theon is, for his nipples seem to be not only large, but sensitive. "Jon!" he gasps, a shaky hand grabbing Jon by the hair, pulling him closer. He ribs his cock along Jon's hip. "Yes, fuck, like that, oh..." Jon rolls the nipple in between his teeth to see how Theon will react; Theon trembles and all but sobs.

Jon pulls up and away, looking down at his handiwork, the nipple red, wet and swollen. Theon groans in disappointment, and Jon quickly switches over to the other, lapping at it and circling it with his tongue before sucking hard and fast.

"Jon!" Theon cries, voice high and needy as a maid, and it's barely a second later that he thrusts himself up against Jon's hip, and then just stops. Jon feels him shudder all over against him, and then, Theon's cock slowly starts to soften.

_Oh._  Jon pulls up and away to look at Theon in surprise, and he can't quite keep from smirking. He probably doesn't try as hard as he should. Theon makes an irritated noise. "Alright, alright. You got me, I have sensitive teats. Are we even now, Snow?"

Jon's smirk spreads wider, and even his prick twitches in his breeches. There's all sorts of things he could do to Theon, but... "What, right now? Sure," he shrugs nonchalantly, and goes about sitting up to discard his breeches, and the come uncomfortably drying within them. "I plan on getting some sleep tonight, Theon."

He likely won't, but he should try.


	14. Problem Solved (Cat, Renly/Stannis, T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So in some ways, this should not be such a surprise. Many peaces have been brokered with marriage alliances before. Most likely, she thought Stannis would offer his daughter to Renly, for she was the only female relative either of them had available.
> 
> It turns out, the two Baratheon brothers are more creative than she is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the asoiaf kink meme prompt: "Renly/Stannis. Cat lock them both in a bedroom so they can make peace and work together.  
> Cat: you are the brothers!  
> But the outcome (maybe Stannis decide to make Renly his consort) is not what she expected."

So in some ways, this should not be such a surprise. Many peaces have been brokered with marriage alliances before. When she put them into that room, Catelyn did consider that might be a possible solution they'd come up with – although the fact they were both already married, and brothers, did put a crimp in that. Still, they are of Targaryen blood, and it is not unprecedented for a man to take two wives. Most likely, she thought Stannis would offer his daughter to Renly, for she was the only female relative either of them had available.

It turns out, the two Baratheon brothers are more creative than she is.

Catelyn blinks, weighing her response carefully. It would do no good to offend them. “Can you... do that?” she asks.

Stannis grits his teeth. “There is precedence,” he says. “The first men took other men as consorts sometimes.” Cat blinks. Ned never told her that. Maybe he was afraid of scandalising her. “And the incest and polygamy... you're familiar with the Targaryens.”

“Admittedly, all three together might be a bit much,” Renly interjects, “but these things are a matter of persuasion. And the Tyrells can be very persuasive. Oldtown is one of their greatest cities.”

Catelyn raises an eyebrow. “And your lady wife's family takes no issue with you taking another...?”  _husband_ , she wants to say, but of course Lord Renly – King Renly? Queen Renly? She'll have to ask about the terminology – would only have the one husband.

“They'll be alright,” Renly says, and then grimaces. “Well, most of them. But they're still getting what they want.”

“We've agreed that our wives will both hold the status of queens,” Stannis explains. “And our children will be entitled to the throne purely in order of primogeniture.”

“We shall rule together, as co-kings,” Renly explains, and Stannis glowers at him. “Although I of course will defer to my older brother on certain matters.”

This sounds like a succession dispute waiting to happen, but Cat supposes that is none of her business. “And the marriage,” she says, “will it be consummated?” She doesn't wish to sound like too much of a traditionalist, but well, they are  _brothers_.

Stannis grits his teeth again. “Would it be a marriage otherwise?” he asks, and Renly laughs.

“Yes, I'm afraid my gentle heart has taken pity on poor Lady Selyse, and I must relieve her burden,” he japes, and Stannis glowers again. Well  _that_  seems like a good start to a marriage. “I only kid, dear brother,” Renly says. “Who knows? You might actually enjoy fucking me.”

“Renly!” Stannis curses, and Catelyn does her best not to blush. Renly keeps laughing. Well. That was direct. “That is not the point. It is purely a matter of...”

...Of what? Not securing an heir, certainly; they both have wives for that. Catelyn blinks. “...What happened in that room, anyway?”

And then, something truly mad happens. Lord Stannis – Stannis Baratheon, that iron lord, he who withstood the siege of Storm's End and has never looked weak in his life –  _blushes_.

Renly, in contrast, merely smirks at her. “Oh, wouldn't you like to know, my lady,” he says, and Cat isn't sure she would. Still, she supposes she has accomplished what she meant to, reconciled the two Baratheon factions so they might ally with her son – although perhaps decrying Cersei Lannister's children as bastards born of incest will lose some of its poignancy when her two most prominent accusers are brothers wed. Still, that is not Catelyn's problem, and they won't be siring heirs.

“But still,” Renly continues. “We owe you a great debt, my lady. Without your intervention, we would have been slaughtering one another upon battlefield tomorrow morning.” Stannis looks surprisingly nervous at that, and Catelyn sighs. She reminds herself to prey that, if she ever gets her daughters back, and if she ever manages to reconcile their differences, it won't be in this fashion. “And I'm sure your son will press that debt for all it is worth.”

“We owe  _him_  nothing,” Stannis spits. “The Stark boy is still a rebel and a traitor–”

“As am I, brother, but you've shown yourself capable of surprising flexibility–”

Catelyn sighs deeply, again. Married life, it seems, is starting well.


	15. Touch (Jon/Robb, E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Jon, _please_. You _have_ to touch me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was boredly playing about with a [kink generator](http://promptgenerator.tumblr.com/kink2), got the kinks "orgasm denial + coming untouched", and this ensued.

Robb lets out a long, low, desperate moan as Jon runs his hands up the length of his strong thighs, split apart on the bed, straining as the little heir desperately tries to invite his bastard brother deeper into him. “Jon,” he gasps as Jon slowly shifts his hips, letting Robb feel the head of his cock rub against that special spot deep in his insides, just for a moment. “Oh, _Jon_.”

Jon can't quite keep back a smirk. Part of him fears he should not enjoy this so much, even leaving thoughts of sin and damnation aside, but another part can't help but revel in having the little lord so utterly under his thumb. It's not as if Robb isn't getting anything out of it. “Do you like that?” he whispers gently as he thrusts his cock in a little deeper, almost moaning himself at the tight heat surrounding him. “My lord?”

Robb lets out a choked whimper and thrusts up toward the movement, trying to get more. That makes Jon frown and squeeze his naked thigh in warning, and Robb settles back down. The boy gives a sob of resignation. “Touch me, please,” he gasps.

“I will. When I feel like it,” Jon replies, not missing a beat, smoothly rocking in and out of Robb to drive him toward madness. Part of him still thinks he should take pity on his brother, but the other part wants to know how far he can take this. It's tempting just to pin Robb down and fuck him as hard and as fast as he can muster, like an animal, but he wants to draw this out.

Robb whimpers again, and there's nothing actually stopping him from reaching down and taking himself in hand – nothing but Jon's will. He keeps his hands up by the bedspread, almost as if Jon has him tied there – Jon has considered asking Robb if he'd allow him that, but he's never mustered the courage, not least because he's afraid Robb might say yes.

He knows that Robb relishes this, being utterly under someone else's control. He doesn't think he understands it, really, but it alligns neatly with his own longing, guilty and long-suppressed, for power – however little.

Jon sets a pace as he fucks Robb, slow, gentle and teasing, enough to make Robb arch his back and whine in his desperation. “Is this not enough for you, Robb?” he asks. “You did beg for it so. Don't you remember?” The sight of Robb lying back with that shy grin, spreading his legs, closing his eyes and moaning like a whore as he fed one oil-slick finger after another into his needy hole, rambling on and on about how much he needed Jon's cock – that is burned into Jon's memory. “If you wanted me to touch your cock, you should have asked. But you were too desperate to be fucked.”

Robb mewls, his hole clenching hard around Jon's length. “Jon, _please_ ,” he begs shamelessly. “You _have_ to touch me.”

“No,” Jon answers, and stirred by Robb's desperation, he starts thrusting into him harder, faster than he meant to, enough to make Robb cry out softly and turn to smother the noise in his shoulder. “You're just here as a hole for me to fuck Stark, and I'm not going to make you come until I feel like it–”

And then Robb cries out again, louder this time, and Jon feels something wet splash on his belly. He looks down and blinks in surprise as Robb spills, helplessly, moaning, and rutting up onto Jon's length. Even as the seed drips out of him though, he does not reach down to touch his cock.

It takes Jon a moment to process what's happened, as Robb recovers. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and Jon looks up to see him blushing and squirming in embarrassment. “I-I didn't mean to.”

For a moment, Jon's about to mock him, to smugly conclude that his cock _was_ enough for Robb after all – why should he ever touch the boy's cock again? But when they lock eyes a moment, he's suddenly struck by a wave of such overwhelming affection towards his brother. _He tried so hard to be good for me._ Robb knew he was about to come, and so tried to make it Jon's doing, so he wouldn't break the unspoken rules. He probably thinks he'll be punished now. Gently, Jon cups his jaw.

“That's okay." he whispers, his own cock twitching hard inside Robb's hole. “You made a mistake. I understand.”

The light in Robb's eyes flickers, and Jon then remembers the sorts of things his brother wants from him. Gently, he swipes two fingers across the mess lying upon his belly, and Robb's own.

“You just have to be good and clean it up for me.”

Robb can't help but smile.


	16. Lord's Duty (Theon/Robb, T)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a prompt I got on tumblr: throbb, "stop acting like a child."

“I can’t believe you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” Theon snaps automatically, glaring at the furs spread across Robb’s bed. He doesn’t look Robb in the eye, but he can practically hear Robb rolling them.

“Could have fooled me,” he mutters, before sighing and sitting down on the bed next to Theon. “Come on, don’t act like a child. I have duties to attend to, you know that.”

“You and your fucking duty,” Theon mutters. “Can’t all those bloody peasants wait one damn hour?”

“They’re my people, Theon. At least while Father’s away. I can’t neglect them.” Theon knows Robb is right, that’s what’s so annoying about this. It’s annoying that Robb has no time for him anymore, too busy with his role playing Warden of the North. It’s annoying that he’s as much an heir to a great house as Robb is, but Robb is currently master of half of Westeros whereas Theon hasn’t even seen the rocks that will be his some day for years. It’s annoying that Robb is so mature and responsible about this, already the perfect lord in a way Theon just isn’t.

However, something in Robb’s lordly demeanor softens then. Gently, he tucks a hand under Theon’s chin, and smiles sadly at him. “I wish I didn’t have to,” he whispers, almost like he’s confessing. “I don’t enjoy it Theon. It’s… exhausting, and confusing, and often very sad. But it has to be done.”

Theon winces, feeling ever more like an immature brat when he sees Robb’s mask fading away. “I know that,” he says. “I just wish…”

He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence, but Robb nods along. “Me too,” he says. “I’d rather spend my days with you. I’d rather be with you. You know that.”

Theon sighs. He does know that - he’s not  _really_  jealous of all the people Robb has to spend the day attending, who see him for maybe fifteen minutes and who he must forget before the day is done. He gets a lot more of Robb than they ever will. But he’s selfish, he wants  _all_  of Robb.

“Well, at least I get your nights,” he says, smirking faintly as the sun sets behind Robb’s window. “Speaking of which.”

Robb blushes faintly, no longer seeming such a little lord. “ _Theon_.”

“Hey, you told me not to act like a child,” Theon says, raising his hands in protest. “I don’t think many children do  _that_.”

Robb rolls his eyes again, but he’s smiling. “Alright, fair enough.”


	17. Firelight (Jon/Cat, M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came from the same virtual dice + kink generator system [Forest Flowers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13416762) did (linking bc I can't be bothered explaining properly again), in this case "Cat/Jon, sexual frustration + temperature play"

It would be easier to think she is ignoring him, like usual – she sure acts as if she is, her eyes stubbornly on the mirror in front of her, never speaking a word, not moving from her position lest her eyes inadvertently graze across him. If she were alone, she would not be so stiff. Sweat beads across her brow and she wipes the soot from her eyes, and Jon frowns as he feeds another log to the fire. Heat swells in the walls around them. They are in her rooms that never need their hearth lit, and he wonders what Father will think when she sits for dinner tonight stinking of smoke.

Slowly, she unties the cord around her neckline, loosening it enough to show a ripe expanse of bare skin – not enough to let him get a proper look at her teats, but still, Jon's cock throbs in his breeches. He leans forward and she sighs deeply, hair loose across her shoulders, dark red glowing in the firelight. A bead of sweat drips from her neck down to her bosom, and Jon follows it with his eyes, the same way he would with his tongue.

Her green velvet dress looks thick and heavy and she hikes it up a few inches, above her ankles, though not high enough that Jon can see anything more than stockings. Greedily, he traces the faint curve of her calf with his eyes, the bend of her heel. The flame hisses as he adds another log, and she gasps softly, as if touched. In the heat she's started to pant, like she's nearing her peak – to his great shame, Jon does know what that looks like. It was an accident, he simply stumbled upon her and Father one time, though in his defence, they were right in the middle of the corridor – as if they could not wait. It was miserably fascinating, to see the woman always so cold to him be so hot.

He does not understand what she gets out of this, from allowing her husband's bastard she so resents to examine her body so, from letting him push her with smoke and flame, from teasing him with glances of her naked flesh. Perhaps she means to mock him, perhaps to ensnare him, perhaps to apologise to him – he has never asked.

Part of him longs to walk over and hoist her from her chair, pin her to the bed and fuck her so hard she would scream his name for all of Winterfell to hear. But he would never dishonour his father so. Nor would she. She would never let him dishonour his father so.

Her hand grips her thigh and Jon raises his eyebrow, wondering if she's tempted to touch herself. But she sighs and lets go. After all, if she touched herself he might feel entitled to do the same, and that might just be too much for her.

Eventually he runs out of wood and the fire starts to fade. The room grows colder – not as cold as the rest of the castle, but enough he can see a chill run through her sweaty body, and she pulls her neckline closed. When the hearth holds nothing but glowing embers, Jon stands to leave. He wonders if he should nod to her, if he should call her _my lady_ , but since she has never acknowledged him even being here it's easier just to go.

He is too hot, hard and aching, and she hasn't even looked at him. And yet Jon feels like he has gotten something out of turning wood into ash.


	18. Fur and Loathing (Sansa/Jon/Robb, E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She hates it when her brothers let their beards grow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kink generator gave: "beards or stubble + oral fixation"

She hates it when her brothers let their beards grow.

Whenever they do she kicks up a fuss, sighing and nagging about how they ought to look after themselves, which makes Robb laugh her off and Jon pout. She pulls a face whenever she's forced to kiss one of their furred cheeks, whining about how it makes her lips sting after.

She hopes they will not realise why she really wants to keep her distance from them when they wear their beards like that. That she does not trust herself.

There is no reason for the beards to be such a problem. After all, no other man makes her feel like this when his stubble starts to show – and she has tried. It is only her brothers. Her  _brothers_. She keeps looking for some excuse, some absolution, some reason this is not the terrible sin she knows it is – or at the very least, a reason it is not her fault – but she has found none.

When she enters the hall in the morning and sees them breaking their bread together, tired and unshaven, oh, she just wants to throw herself in one of their laps – she can't even seem to care whose – and beg them to take her, there and then upon the table. Gods, what would her parents think if they knew what awful, lustful things she dreams of?

She supposes there is something wild about it, something untamed by man, or the barber's night. Is that what she wants? For her brothers to be animals to her, to take her like a bitch in heat? They do say the Starks are wolves, she remembers uncomfortably.

Sansa lies awake at night and drives her fingers as deep inside her as they will go, and she dreams of something driving in further. She dreams of Robb holding her tight against his back, his stubble burning against her skin as he nuzzles at her neck, and his cock, slamming in and out of her, hard and fast until she screams. And Jon, she dreams of Jon on his knees, lapping at her needy, pulsing folds as Robb fucks her senseless, his beard grazing the sensitive white flesh of her thighs. She dreams of Jon's lips pink and wet with her juices, Robb's teeth dug into her flesh to claim her. She dreams of them fucking her and sucking her until she screams in raw, pure, stupid bliss, and then she feels seed, Robb's seed dripping down her legs and over the skin Jon left red...

And when she gets up in the morning, she sees her brothers shaved again, and she tries to swallow her disappointment.


	19. Godly (Cat/Ned, M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is strange, thinks Catelyn. These northerners worship their gods so very differently than she does. In the moment she's not inclined to complain, but it is worth noting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kink generator provided: religious fetishisation + public or semi-public sex

It is strange, thinks Catelyn. These northerners worship their gods so very differently than she does. In the moment she's not inclined to complain, but it is worth noting.

She groans as she tilts her head back against the wood of the Heart Tree, knowing she'll have pieces of bark in her hair to explain away, explanations that most likely won't be believed. Ned's hand finds her hip and grasps her, grip strong enough to make her moan. It is not often she comes here, but sometimes, sometimes she cannot help herself.

“Ned,” she whispers and the birds above them titter, almost in answer. She is embarrassed to think she is being watched, if only by animals, but in some strange way, it excites her also. Ned simply groans at her, his lips cold and chapped when they meet her own, and Catelyn does not know if it is the heat of his body or the cold of the world outside that makes her shiver.

She would never dare do such a thing in the sept, under the wary eye of the Father, ever mindful of her chastity. Part of her still thinks the Old Gods cannot possibly approve of this as much as she's been told they do: to see their son make love to a woman, even if she is his wife, beneath their gaze. Especially a southerner. But if Ned, her lovely, shy Ned, sees no reason to have reservations, why should she?

His fingers find the laces of her gown just as hers find the hem of it, and she finds she's stripping herself beneath as he's stripping her above. “Careful, love,” she says, her teeth chattering as the wind hits her bare breasts. “You don't want me to lose a nipple. That would be hard to explain to the Maester.”

Ned chuckles. “Quite right,” he says wryly, and then he bends down and takes one nipple into his mouth, suckling fiercely as his spare hand grasps her other breast, keeps it warm that way. Catelyn moans aloud, and then covers her mouth with her hand to hide the noise. And then she laughs.

It is strange, all this, but she shivers in delight as the leaves scratch her skin. She feels raw, open, exposed. As a woman typically so composed, it is intoxicating.

Ned's other hand makes it's way up her thigh, and she spreads her legs lewdly for him, the snow cold and wet under her behind. There is a peace in it, this frantic, almost youthful fumbling beneath the shade of the great tree. A sense of belonging, and a feel that this is how the gods meant them to be.

 


	20. Lord and Lady (Sansa/Willas, T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you forget a man you never met?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for day 3 of asoiaf rarepair week, prompt: "I thought you were a dream come true."

He will forget her, not that he ever knew her at all. Does he at least know her name? Did Lady Olenna make sure to ask her grandson's permission before trying to match him? Yes, surely. The way Sansa imagined it, she told herself it was Lord Willas' idea in fact. The Tyrell heir had heard of the Stark heiress, her beauty and her sadness, and fallen in love from afar. He had devoted himself to rescuing her, and sent his family to the capital with that very mission. His wound might have stolen the dream of being a knight on horseback, in shining silver plate, but he could still be a knight in his heart.

Sansa is learning that such things do not happen, that it is not the way of the world, but oh, it was a nice thing to think.

She was told he wasn't that handsome, but in her dreams, he still was. Perhaps not on first glance, not an obvious prettiness that would have every maiden's heart in the kingdom fluttering. But Sansa distrusts such prettiness now in any case. Joffrey is that pretty. But he would be handsome: older than her, but mature, refined. Not a man to make a maiden's heart race in joy, but to make it slow in contentment. To give her peace when the world around seems intent on giving nothing but terror.

Perhaps in her dreams Lord Willas was something like her father: not a man who's warmth can be seen a mile off, but a man with so much love in him you could never know the depths of it. Perhaps he dreamed they would be like her parents, and she would learn to love this man as much as her lady mother learned to love the solemn stranger she wed for swords. What more could she wish for?

She will never know if she was right, if the husband she stitched out of wishes and memories would be anything like the one she would have had. Most likely, she will never meet him. She is to be Lady Lannister now, bound forever to the monsters who stole her life from her, breeding their lion cubs. She should forget him.

But how do you forget a man you never met?

As Sansa waits to be dragged to the sept and made to sign herself away, her anger, her grief overtakes her. She darts to the window, sewing needle in hand. Were she more broken than she is, she may do something desperate, but for now she takes the point and she scratches into the wood of the windowsill. She writes a name. _Lady Sansa Tyrell._

It is a girlish gesture, a foolish gesture. But a proud one. She runs her fingers over the carving, and hopes it lasts hundreds of years, long after everyone has forgotten no such woman ever was. She makes a monument to a love that could have been.

 


	21. Disaster (Jon, Daenerys/Stannis, G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This could be a disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for day 6 of asoiaf rarepair week, prompt: Arranged Marriage

It could be a disaster, this.

Jon knows he's far from the first person to have had this thought: just about everyone in both their new king and queen's retinue have voiced the idea at some point. Both Stannis and Daenerys themselves were reluctant when he first broached the subject, and beneath the stubborn pride that meant neither wished to dishonour their claim to the throne by validating each other's, there was also that imminent possibility: _we could be a disaster._

The whole time, Jon has been the one pushing for this match, convincing himself, and everyone else, that the best thing for Westeros is for its two would-be rulers with the best blood claim to the throne, and some understanding of honour and justice, to combine their forces and fight together, win together, rule together. That's the only thing that will give the land of men any chance when the true enemy arrives.

He hopes he does not live to regret it.

The wedding feast is a strange, patchwork affair, the Wall's rations too low to really honour the occasion, and the ensembles of the king and queen still eyeing one another warily. Daenerys' Essosi men in particular look out of place among the northern cold, sticking close to the fire they've built up as much as they can.

Jon sighs, and takes another sip of ale. _Well, they've not burned each other to crisps yet,_ he thinks, but since they've only been wed two hours, he should give it time. He can tell Stannis and Daenerys, as different as they may seem, both want more than anything to be good rulers. They would not have agreed to this match otherwise. But they also can both be proud, stubborn and self-righteous – so who knows what happens next.

He looks up at them on the dais. They look so very different, side by side: Stannis aging and plain, his usual look of mild discontentment on his face, and Daenerys so young and beautiful, grinning and charming everyone who comes to speak with her. Jon cannot see any obvious tension between the two of them, but then again, they're hardly looking at one another.

His reverie gets interrupted by the weight of someone sitting down next to him, and he looks away to find Davos Seaworth by his side, stubbed fingers reaching for another pint of ale. “Ser Davos,” he says, pleased to see a friendly face. “How are you enjoying the feast?” he says, something of a bitter joke. He knows this is no feast.

“I've certainly eaten worse lad,” Davos laughs at him, grabbing a bit of stale bread. “Besides, I don't think anyone's paying attention to the food. Too busy making sure those two don't kill each other.”

Jon winces, his eyes drawn back to Stannis and Daenerys. They're finally looking at one another – but only because she is asking him to pass the pickled herring.

“This was my idea,” Jon says miserably. “I don't have any coin. If they destroy this place, I can't afford to compensate any of you.”

Davos gives him a bemused look. “I think you can relax a little son,” he says. “I don't think they're anywhere near to burning the hall down.” Jon sighs. Ser Davos is likely right; he does not need to be so paranoid. He just has the vague fear of history repeating. After all, Stannis' brother too wed a woman he didn't love and barely knew to stitch a realm torn apart by war back together. And how did that end?

“You forget, I was there at Stannis' first wedding. He did not look so happy then.”

Jon frowns. What, does Stannis look happy now? He turns to the dais again, and thinks Stannis looks much the same as ever. Not happy, not sad, just – not.

But then, Daenerys, with a small smile on her face, leans over and whispers something in his ear. Stannis stops, almost choking on his cod. She pulls back, and Stannis tries to glare at her, but she just grins cheekily at him. Jon watches as his face turns red, but despite it all, Jon thinks he sees the man's mouth crook a little, in what could be a smile.

He dares a little smile himself then. This still could be a disaster. But maybe, just maybe, it won't be.

 


End file.
